Chapter Three #2
Tillman got in the passenger’s seat in front of Christina.
Walken slid into the SUV in front of them, sitting next to the driver, Yazzie.
The steel garage door lifted, and they all pulled out.
A police escort led the way, lights flashing, siren muted. The other cruiser followed, bringing up the rear of the motorcade.
“Hey, Flores, did you or Yazzie tell anyone on the team which route we’re taking to the airport?” Tillman asked. “Since we have a mole, if you did, maybe we should change the plan.”
“Only two routes,” Flores said. “Take West Broadway Street all the way for six miles or I-90 then Broadway for the last mile. We discussed it in private, just the two of us. Yazzie chose and I agreed. But we did factor in the warning that we might not be safe.” He looked up in the rearview mirror again, and she stared at him.
“That means we’re taking I-90,” Christina said, holding his gaze.
“Fewer chances for someone to intercept us.” It still left the last mile on Broadway.
The strip of road both routes had in common.
“I suggest you don’t take the Broadway exit.
Pass it. Go farther down. Then get off and double back to the airport. ”
“If you think we’re listening to you, you’re delusional. We checked the route,” Flores said as they got onto the interstate. “Ran it. Cleared it. There’s no place for a sniper to set up on the last mile of Broadway. We’ve got this.”
It only meant the Reaper wouldn’t use a sniper rifle. They were out of their league on this one. But nobody was listening to her.
“Suit yourself.” She looked out the window.
The ride on I-90 was short. Or maybe time moved faster when you knew you were about to face death.
Everyone in the car was vigilant. Tillman and Jackson had their sidearms drawn. Flores stayed close to Yazzie’s SUV, and the police cruiser behind them practically rode their bumper.
They took the off-ramp from the interstate and made a left onto Airway Boulevard. After three short blocks, they turned right, taking Broadway.
Maybe the Reaper had found the USMS plane at the airport.
She assumed it would be marked. Separated from commercial traffic.
Perhaps he was waiting to ambush them in the hangar, where there would be less collateral damage.
Or even on the plane. Pick them off in an isolated, contained area. A kill zone he could control.
Her heart raced, beating wild against her sternum.
Sweat trickled down her spine. She ran her thumb over the smart ring on her index finger.
It monitored her heart rate, blood oxygen, breathing regularity, activity, temperature and sleep.
If she could see the app on her phone linked to the ring right now, her stats would be off the charts.
Christina clutched the grab handle she was cuffed to and braced for the unexpected. Her stomach roiled, and she hoped she wouldn’t be sick.
They passed a sign that stated the airport was half a mile up ahead. Traffic was light, with one green light after another. The motorcade breezed down the road. As they approached a sign with a white arrow indicating the airport on the left, their convoy moved into the turn lane.
No need to slow down with another green light.
The police cruiser made the turn, and the first SUV started to follow.
“See,” Flores said, “what did I tell—”
A truck sped through the traffic light and plowed into the side of the first SUV at the intersection. It was a massive airport de-icing truck, with a crane and basket attached. The jarring impact of the collision sent the SUV careening across two lanes, crushing both driver’s-side doors.
Flores slammed on the brakes, tires screeching.
Stunned, no one moved; no one uttered anything for a second, maybe two. Time crawled by in her mind, everything happening in slow motion.
In a blink, the passenger door of the truck flew open and the Reaper jumped to the ground. He held a weapon. A submachine gun, possibly an Uzi.
The sheer ferocity of his expression knocked the air from her lungs. He was just as she remembered. Tall and powerfully built, but not big like a bodybuilder. His hallmark tattoos were barely visible from this distance.
Her entire focus lasered in on him, the world around her expanding and contracting like a snapped rubber band.
Missoula
Friday, April 13, 2:20 p.m.
SHOCK REVERBERATED THROUGH JACKSON. All he could think about was the way that truck came out nowhere at high speed and slammed into the vehicle in front of them. Whether Yazzie had survived. Vazquez. Walken.
Jackson stared at the driver, who’d gotten out of the truck. His heart skipped a beat as he recognized him.
Alvaro Aguilar.
He was no low-level street thug, working for the cartel. No simple sicario. No sense of moral decency. No lines he wouldn’t cross. A hit man who didn’t abide by any rules.
Armed, Aguilar moved quick as lightning.
He opened fire on the first police car, shattering the windshield, and then aimed at their SUV, forcing them to duck as bullets pelted the hood.
While they were momentarily pinned in the vehicle, Aguilar grabbed a hose hanging loose from the crane attached to the top of the truck, pointed the nozzle at a civilian car two lanes to the right that had stopped near the truck and sprayed liquid over the sedan.
Tillman and Flores both hopped out, using their doors as shields. In almost the same breath, the cops did the same. But Aguilar had them in his crosshairs and unleashed the full firepower of the submachine gun.
A devastating spray of bullets took out the officers from the lead cruiser.
He had a H&K MP5. SWAT and Special Forces weapon of choice. The lethal piece of machinery had a rate of fire of eight hundred rounds per minute, but he was using three-round bursts.
Aguilar swung the muzzle of the MP5 in their direction. A car window burst, and a bullet struck Flores. Blood spurted from his neck. Flores clamped a palm over his wound just before he dropped.
Jackson opened the door, but Christina grabbed his arm, stopping him from getting out.
“We have to leave,” she said. “It’s the only way to save them.”
Locked to the grab handle, unable to duck, she was exposed. Easy pickings for Aguilar.
Tillman ducked behind the door as bullets tore through the officers behind them. None of the cops wore vests or helmets. They were only simple escorts.
Jackson dug in his pocket, fished out the handcuff keys and freed her wrist. “Take cover and stay down.”
Aguilar held a flare in his other hand, struck the base against the pavement—all while firing a barrage of bullets at their vehicle. Tillman took cover. Aguilar tossed the sparking flare at the sedan.
The de-icing liquid ignited, catching fire. Flames engulfed the car. Inside, the panicked driver yelled for help.
Shooting stopped. Aguilar took a knee, using the flaming sedan as partial cover. After a rapid reload, he was up again, a weapon in both hands, the submachine gun in one and a nine-millimeter in the other. The blaze emitted plumes of white smoke, cloaking Aguilar.
Tillman opened fire.
Jerking his arm free from Christina, Jackson hopped out. He got down on his knees and checked Flores for a pulse, but he was dead.
What about Yazzie, Vazquez and Walken? Were they alive? Badly injured?
“Get down!” he called to Christina when she lifted her head, looking out a window.